


Run the Play

by Skylark, Swiftling (Skylark)



Series: SASO 2015 [17]
Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Biting, Blood, Character Study, Hatesex, Locker Room Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex, xanatos speed chess sex ver.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Swiftling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You slam him back against the floor just to watch his pupils dilate. <em>Concussion</em>, your mind whispers, and just as quickly you think: <em>No. Not hard enough.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Run the Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inelegantly (Lir)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/gifts).



> [Original Prompt:](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/7182.html?thread=2545422#cmt2545422) “Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” ― Oscar Wilde
> 
> 1,000 thanks to controlcircus for the beta.

You slam him back against the floor just to watch his pupils dilate. _Concussion_ , your mind whispers, and just as quickly you think: _No. Not hard enough._  
  
Part of you wants to do it hard enough. Another part of you wants to run the play, to drag this out as long as you can just to piss him off.  
  
His dreadlocks are a tangled spill across dirty tile. You watch his bare chest heave for air. Your mind runs through possible next steps and then you lose the chance to implement any of them, as his fingers twist painfully in your hair and he drags you down to collide with his mouth.  
  
His body rolls against yours in a sinuous and calculated wave. You know it's pretense; you know your rangy strength is no match for his if he puts his mind to it. He's letting this happen. Part of you wonders if you're playing into his hands. The rest of you is preoccupied with showing him how sharp your teeth really are.  
  
You leave his mouth bloody and grinning. Your grin must match, you think, mirthless and wide, a threat display as much as an expression of desire.  
  
His hands are working your jeans open, his touch quick and light with the ease of muscle memory. You allow it and return your focus to your mouth, littering long bruisy bites all across his jawline, marks too high for hiding.  
  
Then he gets his hand on your dick and the first stroke makes you freeze, your throat locking up around a groan.  
  
His grin looks less vicious and more victorious, now. You release your breath in a low controlled hiss and rock into his grip with your eyes locked on his. It feels better when you're setting the pace rather than letting him do whatever he pleases.  
  
But it's hard—when he finds the perfect tempo so quickly, when he knows just when to slow down and circle his thumb around the head to ease you back from the edge—to ignore his input. He's reading tells you're barely aware you're giving.  
  
But someone like him can't really stop you. You return to your previous work, testing the bumps of his ribs beneath your sharp, searching fingers. You smirk at the shudder that wracks through him, raw and involuntary. You force your hips down, startling him so that his grip slips and his eyelids flutter from the fleeting pressure against his own trapped dick. You haven't touched him yet. You're not sure you want to.  
  
You let him make you come. The sensation sweeps you up even though you're anticipating it. Your head tips back, exposing your throat; your shoulders snap back and your spine bows into a long, satisfied arch.  
  
Your eyes refocus in time to watch his expression twist into ugly frustration, and then you're sure you don't want to touch him.


End file.
